A far cry from home
by BarricadeBoy221B
Summary: When Mike wakes up bleeding, bound and with Harvey no where in sight, at first he tries to convince himself it's a terrible dream. But Vaas, the psychopath leader of a band of pirates already has plans for him. Why were the Pearson Hardman boys near Rook Island at all? Will Mike ever get home, and if so, will Harvey be with him? Rated M for language and torture/gore


"Wakey, wakey…come on, 'Mike Ross'…wake the fuck up…"

It's not clear to Mike what brings him round first. The air's thick with the smell of blood, and is stiflingly humid, his shirt stuck to his sweat saturated skin. So much so, it's uncomfortable to really breathe, though when he tries to inhale, an oozing feeling from both nostrils explains the metallic scent. As his vision steadies itself, the face of the man currently patting his cheek to stir him gradually becomes clearer. Though when he sees Mike's awake, the young lawyer quickly wishes he'd played dead. A cruel smile unfolds across this man's lips, black eyes glittering in the firelight with poisonous intent. A hoarse protest to the crackling pain in the back of his head prompts the man to straighten up, throwing his arms skyward and raising his voice in mock relief.

"He's alive, boys! He's alive! He's a-fucking-live!" Accompanied by the encouragement of some other people Mike can't twist his head to see, his captor leans forward, absently fixing Mike's tie.

"It's a Christmas miracle." Gradually, more traits and characteristics of this stranger are slotting into place; his accent, mostly Spanish. The track marks on his hand, at least, that's what Mike thinks they are; drugs. The look he gives Mike right before he speaks again; he doesn't take prisoners. Or if he does, they don't tend to last.

"Where…" his throat hurts…Christ, it feels like he hasn't had water in weeks…his voice isn't his own, just a weak croak. The sensation in his hands is barely there now; he doesn't know how long he's been strung up – a few hours would be a good guess. He tries clenching his fists, but it's uncomfortable to say the least, as is the angle his face is pulled to when the man with the black eyes and cruel mouth is gripping his jaw between his fingers, turning his head this way and that as if inspecting him.

"You've been out of it a long time now, amigo…you nearly missed all the action. But, I'm very happy you're awake. Because _now…_" he tugs him forward, their faces are so close now that Mike has little choice but to look him in the eyes.

"…now, you get to tell me where your friend is. Hm? No no no, don't look over there, look at me- I said FUCKING LOOK AT ME." He's shouting in Mike's face, his breath hot and laced with beer and cigar smoke. There's no time for Mike to process what's happening right now; he's terrified, that much he knows, he's in pain, he doesn't know where he is, who this psycho is…

Before he can even hazard an answer, an apology, a plea, _anything – _a rough hand is clamped around his throat and squeezing.

"You're getting nervous, huh? You getting fucking nervous now – are you _scared, hermano? _You'd better fucking be – you hear me? I SAID DO YOU HEAR ME MOTHERFUCKER"

Mike can only manage a weak nod, his already raw throat now being torn to shreds by his desperate gasps for air.

"Good. I'm glad. Because let me tell you something…Mike Ross of Pearson Hardman" he holds Mikes ID to the light of a nearby bulb, reading it over slowly as he continues. "…I got a lot of questions for you, a lot of questions, and I'm gonna need you to answer them. Because you know…I'm getting real...fucking...sick…of tourists, coming here, and fucking my shit up. You had someone with you, yes? Who's with you?" Harvey. Harvey had been with him. On the plane...

"I was alone" Mike says weakly, his mind swimming, causing a sense of nausea to wash through him in waves. This isn't what the man wants to hear, because without a hint of hesitation, Mike's blinking and opening his eyes again to the chill of a blade to his throat. He can't remember, he can't remember – how did he end up here, they were on the plane talking about their client, nothing unusual. All he can feel now is the blood pulsing through him, his skin suddenly tracing paper in the face of a weapon, his heart's a jackrabbit kicking its way out of a cage, petrified at the sudden possibility of being cut out.

"I'm alone, I'm alone…please, don't-"

"Let me tell you now, I really fucking hate repeating myself. So I'm gonna ask you one last time who else is with you, and if you screw with me, I'm gonna turn you into a fucking pez dispenser. Comprender?"

"Okay, okay, just, please – please, put the knife down"

"Or what. Hm. You're gonna sue me?" The joke is totally lost on Mike, who can feel tears of panic pricking at his eyes. 'When there's a gun in the room, there's always other options' other options, other options…no, not now there aren't. Harvey needs to wake him up now – needs to laugh at him for still having nightmares, needs to remind him to take the files when they go to get off. When he tries to shut his eyes and shy away from the knife, his captor clamps a hand to the back of his neck, forcing his head forward, and running the edge of the blade up and down his throat almost teasingly.

"Come on, Mikey…you're a smart boy…with your fancy suit, your fancy tie…you know what the right thing to do here is." Tilting his face up with the tip of the knife, the man smirks.

"Who else is on my island? You tell me, maybe I let you live."

Mike knows the 'maybe' is as hollow as the breaths he's only just managing to take in. He just knows.

"…M-My boss…my boss is here…" After a moment of assessing his face for any hint of a lie, the cruel mouth from before unfolds into a wide grin.

"There! See? It's not so hard, is it now? So many people nowadays, they lie _so, so much – _and it hurts my fucking feelings, you know?" Maybe as a reward, he steps away from Mike, taking his weapon with him, and playing with it in his hands, casually as anything.

"When people lie to my face…about even little things…it makes me very angry. You know that feeling, Michael? It's like...it's like you can't trust anyone anymore. But you-" directing the knife back at him, "-know better than that eh?" A low chuckle escapes him. "You know how this works…you cooperate, nothing bad happens. You see, it's even, it's equal, it's logic-"

"Vaas" Blinking in disbelief – at being interrupted maybe? – He turns slowly on his heel, to face a younger man a few feet away, a cell phone in hand. Mike can't make out much of what he looks like; a red bandana covers everything but his eyes, though he does notice the black band around his upper left arm. It's the same as the other men Mike can see, as well as the psychopath who had him strung up like a piece of meat.

"Can't you see I'm fucking busy?"

"Hoyt's here."


End file.
